"My friend died two weeks ago," Chrissie said on the phone. "Is it OK to send healing to her soul?"

"Good question," I replied. "But difficult to answer. How did she die?"

"Cancer. She'd had it 10 years."

"So she knew death approached, and was mentally and energetically ready?"

"Yes. She had a spiritual master who helped."

"That means death was likely not a shock. She's unlikely to be a 'lost' soul, and probably doesn't need healing to enter her version of Light."

"Good. But what if I feel her around?"

"That's not common. Most souls go to the next phase of learning or existence within minutes or days. It's been two weeks. She's almost certainly in a School of Learning, discovering whether she passed her tests on Earth, and fulfilled her Contract for this life-time."

"And if I feel her around? Can you sense her around me?"

I tuned in to the soul. She wasn't around. Bereaved people often 'feel' the soul nearby, when it's their own hopes. wishing the person was still with them. "If she is around," I comforted, "it's because she's fine, and has been given a dispensation to return briefly to see what you're doing, or to comfort you, or to learn a little more."

"Who will help her though? Should I..."

Chrissie is persisting. I'll tune in again on other levels, to be sure... "No. It's OK. I can't feel her soul wandering or wondering. Her dead relatives, guides, angels or ancestors should have helped her pathway by now."

Chrissie needs to do something. I'll give a technique, but one that won't damage the spirit. "The one thing you don't want, is use an energy that drags her back to Earth, just because you willed it unfairly."

"Oh, perhaps I won't send anything then."

"No, I think you need to do something. Send healing love for her happiness, to fulfill her next path of existence."

*Oh, that's lovely. I'll just write it down."

Thank God this phonecall wasn't as bad as some. Tougher techniques or spirit rescue may have been needed if she'd been a lost soul...

The beauty of chanelling automatic writings is you don't have to think. You just place fingers over a keyboard, look away from the screen, and eventually read what came out.

Automatic writings are often cryptic, and need deciphoring; or "punchy", with short messages to meditate on to enhance inner values.

So I thought I'd try that today. I have no idea what will come... So please forgive in advance :-) Here goes...

"Love is the oft recognised beauty. It needs nurturing to ensure prevailing winds of fortune blows love in the way of others for ages to come. When achieved as a state of automatically enhanced motion, love fragments off you, to touch willing recipients' in the fire of their innermost desires.

At some point in time, love is the answer to your soul on Earth, to it's birth and release, to its anxiety and bliss. Resistance to love is eventually futile. Only when enough love dominates the agenda-minds of those who hate and disparage can peaceful acquiessence be a bargaining tool to cut through to the truth of love.

Show your belief in love. Yes, it's tough, as easy as showing how to beat Usain Bolt in the 100 metres. Belief in love won't be strong enough for many to absolve from their personal chicken-coop agendas. Lessons will wilt and wait for another chance at another time, through another person who might even say the same lesson of love.

But try to show the belief in the types of love that life's journey ultimately needs. Because only then will others wilt who previously desisted on the values of love.

Grander schemes may be considered, but the grandest of them all will always be to love. Because the love of the world may depend on your nation; the love in your nation may depend on the love of a few; and the love of a few may depend on you.

To relieve the joy of those nearing the end of a journey, to take over from where others left off their beauty, is a blessing far greater than the gifts of Gods normally bestow. Opened eyes, like non-matter microscopes and telescopes, open the mind to the heart of the soul. Then it's possible to relieve the love of previous humanity, and further the cause of progressively prosperous love.

Wonder at the love of the most loving person you know, and see how to seek to emulate like an Emir of love. Those who forgot or don't want to pray may be in the wishes and whims of the arms of those that do. Better therefore to uphold the values of niceties of love, to grovel at the feet of love, to bake the heat of love into loaves to give away at your wish and whim.

Yet with all this love, the question that abounds is, "What is love?"

Foregoing your answer to choose another person's answer may be the way forward.

For whatever you believe love to be, your version becomes a stagnant habit, needing constant refreshment at the fountains of others' definitions of what love is. End

Well, that was that. Regular readers may see it's not my normal language.

When asked to do a channelling for others, they normally choose one or two lines daily, that may speak volumes during 5 or 10 minutes meditation.

Weird-and-wonderful-but-true blogs should have an emphasis on weird. How's this for weird-but-true?

Imagine having stomach pains for two years, a stomach "tumour" increasing like a 7-month pregnancy, and then 'giving birth' to an alien creature.

After my lecture in Adelaide, at a Polish friend's spiritually-decorated home, we discussed her enlarged stomach. It didn't fit any health pattern I'd heard

Here's her edited email received yesterday.

I was very sick for 2 years. It started in the tummy with occasional dull pain, then sporadic pain. Gradually the pain increased in frequency and severity.

I would rock on the floor in severe pain for hours until it eased, and then I'd be OK for 6 to 8 hours and then it would start again.

As my stomach got bigger, the pain seemed to get worse.

Eventually, the pain moved to the small intestines. I became so weak I passed out for a few hours before finally getting the pain out of my body.

I looked in the toilet, and saw a spiky creature, little, but a monster for my tummy.

The creature seemed alien. It was about 3cm long, like a caterpillar accept for fluffy fur, spikes all around, and 3 tails. Each tail had the shape of a spade card symbol on the end - like in-turned hearts. I was so surprised, I immediately flushed it down the toilet!

It had lived in my stomach - not affected by the acid! Prior to it being removed I felt it passing through my small intestine. Sharp spikes dug into the intestine walls. Eventually, after almost passing out for a few hours in a chair, I released it through the back passage! Wow.

A week after, I had different tummy pains, like sever ulcerations (lacerations?). A lovely traveller man had made an electrical healing device. Frequencies went through even the bone areas, to help heal me. Specially prepared Slippery Elm also healed me, as did powerful homeopathics, pure sulphur crystals and more.

I'm now happy and chirpy about life, especially about my new flat tummy. :-)

Due to severe immune deficiency, countless hospitals in the UK and abroad have kindly offered me bed and board. I could blog for weeks on in-patient fun I've had since childhood. What's the point of moping around, even in hospital?

Today's hernia operation for my friend was an opportunity for more hospital fun.

She waited two and a half hours to be wheeled in and cut open. But in that time we'd laughed long and loud, cheered up two miserable-looking patients whose previous ops had gone wrong, and helped two nurses understand how to contact souls of dead relatives.

“We have a bed space for you,” said a nurse. She was right. There was a 6-bedded ward with 5 beds. My friend was given the space for a bed. “We'll find a bed, then wheel you to the theatre,” said the nurse.

“Theatre? I usually buy front seats,” I said. “How much are yours?”

The nurse laughed. “At one time we had glass panels - relatives watched operations. But too many fainted.”

“Yes.” It felt she wanted to say more, but was unsure. So I added, “I was co-presenter of a live psychic TV show, interpreting viewers' unexplained mystical experiences.”

“Great. I believe in all that.” Most people do – they just need confidence to talk about it, without fear of being laughed at. “I see my dead father regularly. Some people don't accept that, but I do.”

I didn't ask if she saw souls of hospital patients who died. Not when my friend was about to be anaesthetised.

Curtains pulled around the lady opposite. “Last time,” she said so loudly everyone in the ward heard, “you said I'd be out in a day. I was out in 5 days. And was then re-admitted for 6 weeks with complications.”

The doctor just listened.

“Morphine didn't work on me. I've taken every anti-pain tablet available, and still get pain.”

Scratch-marks on the window by her bed, looked as if someone with pain had tried to claw their way out.

“Your anaesthetic didn't work,” she continued. “I felt needle pain in the back of my hand for weeks after.” The doctor murmered something. “I don't want to talk to you,” she interrupted. “AND I DON'T WANT YOUR ANAESTHETIC. I'd rather you bashed me on the head, and I wake up after the op at home.”

“It's Ok. We'll ask you to count down. 10, 9, 8, 7 and so on until you're asleep.”

“What if I get down to 1? Do I then go -1, -2, -3 and so on? What if it gets to -98, -99, -100?”

“You'll be asleep before then,” the doctor reassured.

“If I was asleep, what if I walked in my sleep? How would that affect the operation?”

A second nurse arrived to my friend, and dithered about, not doing much. It was apparent why when she spoke to me. “My friend says you're psychic. Are you?”

“Yes.” It was obvious she wanted me to help her, not her to help my friend. “How can I help you?” I asked.

“Can you contact my daughter's dead friend? Is he OK? Is anyone with me? Can you see anything negative by me?”

I could. To her right stood a smaller figure, at shoulder height. It was dark, almost black. I tuned out. With my friend about to be wheeled away and cut open, this wasn't the time or place for potentially negative spirit rescue.

“Can you see anything negative with me?” she repeated.

“No,” I said. I can't see anything negative because I've tuned out. But she seems to know... “Even if I saw something negative, I'd never say yes. Psychics are here to help people, not give them negatives to think about.”

“Can you contact my daughter's friend?”

“Yes. Here's my card. Your options are, I tell you everything I see. Or I type the chat with your spirit on my laptop, and email you. Or I help you meet your dead friend. If you see and talk with a spirit yourself, it's more realistic.”

Later, we joked with the “pain lady” opposite, to alleviate stress of a second operation going wrong. Another patient needed laughs too. She'd waited 6 hours to have bone from her hip and grafted to her wrist to correct a previous wrist operation that had gone wrong.

If I was having an op in this hospital, I'd be getting worried...

“It's time for your op,” said a third nurse. “Put on these stockings. They stop thrombosis.”

“Wearing stockings is nothing to do with stopping thrombosis,” I said to my friend “It's the doctor's fetish. He likes operating on women in stockings.”

She was wheeled to the operating theatre laughing. When she comes out, I pray she laughs more than the other two patients did when they returned from operations that went wrong...

PS

After my friend woke, her first words were, “You know I never dream. Well, I had a dream! Three white people stood on my right, two stood by my left. They chatted with me, happily. The ones on the right disappeared first.”

This weekend was the second embarrassing school reunion I've attended.

The first reunion was five years ago. I hadn't seen the 'kids' for decades, and didn't recognise anyone. Even my best mate who visited me in Margate as my first teen-womanising buddy. Despite searching his face hard, I couldn't recognise a single feature about him. All these men looked too fat or too sick, too white-haired or bald.

But they all remembered me. Which made it even more embarrassing.

One tall man hugged me, then dropped his head on my shoulder and sobbed loudly for ages. I didn't even know who he was. After, he said he was so happy to see me alive. I'd been so ill as a child, he hadn't expected me to live beyond my 20s. I still can't remember who he was.

Luckily, despite being ill, I had a photographic memory, so easily passed exams – I could remember and read any topic, in any page, of any book.

My boarding school in Bury St Edmunds is historic. In the year 903 King Edmund's body was laid in the priests' college, part of the school.

Soon after, King Canute arrived. This wise Danish prince ruled Denmark, England, Norway, and Sweden. He is famous for sitting in his throne on a beach and trying to command the tide not to wet his feet - to show his courtiers he is not as all-powerful as God.

King Canute paid from his royal purse for boys to attend school. He even freed sons of slaves and paid for them to attend school too.

By the Royal Command of King Edward V1, in 1550 my school became a Royal School, the second “King Edward VI School” in England. It's now had that name for 450 years. Original school rules still exist:

Rules for staff in 1550 AD

Women like deadly plagues shall be kept at a distance.

Teachers shall never advance to fresh subjects until earlier ones are thoroughly understood.

The teachers shall appoint two boys called censors to note offences.

The teachers shall secretly appoint a third boy to watch the other two and report to the master any offences overlooked or not noticed.

Boys shall amuse themselves in decent sports such as the use of the javelin or archery.

The privilege of recreation shall only be allowed on Thursdays and only then if the weather is fine and the work of the scholars justifies it.

Rules for parents in 1550 AD

You shall find your child sufficient ink, and candles for the winter.

You shall allow your child a bow, three arrow shafts, bow strings and an arm guard to exercise shooting.

School rules for the boys in 1550 AD

Those who cannot read and write shall be excluded.

Any boy misbehaving himself in any public place shall be flogged.

Boys shall amuse themselves in decent sports such as the use of the javelin or archery.

They shall speak Latin in school.

Every boy shall have a knife (used to sharpen a feathered quill pen).

When they have need to write, the boys shall use their knees as a table.

So in 1550 children attended school with bows and arrows. It hasn't changed much. In my school days, we attended with use of bren-guns and 303 rifles. Same thing, just more modern weaponry.

Previously I'd attended a Margate boarding school for "delicate children", a polite phrase for children in danger of death. Some children died.

Thank God my health improved, and I was seen as capable. So local government paid my boarding school fees to attend the minor public school, in the same way King Canute paid for poorer boys to attend this school over 1,000 years ago.

I was still too ill though. Friends were there, but not enough. Most of my energy was spent staying alive. Healing and love hadn't entered by thoughts. I wasn't 'cured' by a healer until many years later.

Inevitably I was bullied for being a sick child. Thank God the bullies had no bows and arrows, and no bren guns or rifles.

School bullies should be shunned. They damage psyche that needs healing later in life. But what when school bullies grow up, and meet kids they bullied when a child? Should the bully apologise? Or should we imagine they've learned a lesson, and moved on with love?

Luckily, I've moved on with love, and school bullies weren't at the reunion. But if they had been, I would have sent love to them anyway. They might need love too...

The beauty of God is that God is found anywhere if you only look. God is everywhere', goes the saying. But the search for God is blinded by daily life. How many times a day do we see God anywhere at all?

Is God in a dustbin? Go check it out – I did 30 years ago! Is God in a prison? Go check it out – I did 20 years ago! Is God in a criminal? Go check it out – I met God in a criminal yesterday (see blog)..

After yesterday's meeting, I went to 'The Rose' cafe. Inside, a waitress was harassed over her religion by two Turkish waiters. I didn't get involved – I needed to write the blog.

A hippy-style man sat nearby. His long curly blond hair and short beard was just too straggly for a Jesus look-a-like. He spoke loudly to his female partner, with authority.

“If you find death within life, you die and find heaven on Earth.”

Great comment. I typed it.

“Religion is non-sophisticated,” he continued. “Don't expect much.”

Great comment again. This guy's good. I typed it.

He continued spouting punchlines. “Judaism has got to be the angriest religion in the world. I don't blame them.”

“Hinduism offers the best life because Shiva is the best representation of God I've ever seen.”

“Anyone who doesn't seek religion becomes stagnant and stinks.”

Again, I didn't get involved. I just typed. In this man's own way, he was already searching for God everywhere.'

But then he said, “Every time I see a representation of Jesus I think, what a sad git, thinking he was divine.”

“Excuse me,” I smiled. “Your comments are blunt. Do you believe you have a soul?”

“I'm sarcastic about religion.”

Just like John the ex-prisoner was yesterday...John found his soul path. I wonder how this man will find his...

“Any belief,” I replied, “is just human philosophy. Perhaps there are other philosophies to believe.”

He smiled broadly, interested. “Such as?”

“Such as all religions are correct because they're all paths to reach the one soul.”

He laughed. “Agreed. But religions are dominated by men. The question I have for religion is, what's their attitude to women. The answer tells me how non-loving they are.”

This man cannot see Love in religion. But he's seeking. “The Brahma Kumaris are run by women,” I suggested. “They run free courses about your soul and the soul of God. And they do great free veggie food. So,” I ended, “how can I help you?”

A friend once said, Newhaven is a ghetto - to walk there you need a bullet proof vest. Today at lunchtime I walked past swearing teenagers swigging beers in the street, into Newhaven community cafe, armed only with a laptop.

I sought peace from the ghetto to write. Instead I found a piece of Light in the ghetto.

“Would you like a free coffee?" a man asked. "Home-made chocolate and cheese biscuits are free too."

That's different. Yummy, yummy! “What do you do here,” I asked.

“We help people's lives. With community work and counselling.”

Christian symbols were dotted around. Hmm... I've seen countless “community centres” that are more a way to bring lost people into a religion. I thought it best to be frank. “Do you mainly help people's lives,” I asked. “Or do you mainly help people find your version of God?”

“Perhaps you should speak to John...”

John lumbered towards me, a large, 50 year old skin head. Scars on his forehead looked like he'd fought ghetto wars. Tattoos bulged as he flexed his muscles. A bullet-proof vest wasn't needed. But by John's looks, I would have worn one in his past.

For two hours we discussed souls, pathways, religion and so on. One gist of the conversation was this.

“I was a nightclub bouncer,” John said, “then progressed. I protected the Rolling Stones at concerts. Then became a personal body guard. Then a debt collector. I collected debts my gang was owed by rival gangs.”

He spoke with a sort of guilty, embarrassed pride, as if he'd reached the top of his profession, but now knew better.

“I made sarcastic comments about God. I ended in prison. Lost my money, house, everything. One day, a Christian preached in the prison about Jesus. It changed my life. Now I've found Jesus.”

Ooh, great! I love knowing how people find God. “What did you experience when the Christian preached with you? What did you feel inside you?”

“Nothing.”

Ooh, unusual... “Most people's God enlightenment, epiphany, is blinding white Light, a voice of wisdom, a feeling of heat, or electric, or movement in their soul. Or something cataclysmic that jolts their inner core. What did you feel as the preacher spoke?”

“Nothing," John repeated. "But, days later, I found myself talking to druggies I'd avoided, asking about their lives. I discovered their terrible families and upbringings, and felt called to help prisoners.”

“I used to train therapists to help prisoners,” I empathised.

John ignored me and continued. “I now travel to African countries preaching the gospel in prisons. Look,” John said. “Here's a photo I took of men asleep in an African prison. After they woke I asked them to close their eyes, and put their hand up if they'd like Jesus within."

John has found his calling. His enthusiasm for bringing prisoners' lost souls to God was wonderful. Although some may think his religion is a fundamentalist religious sect, I enjoyed how he shared love with the world.

The fact that a rich Christian had just given him a brand new £20,000 car was irrelevant. If we tread a path of Godliness, rewards come naturally. There's always a payback time for fraudsters (which John isn't). Their souls may not experience bliss after death. Soul lessons can be learned in this world's prison, or the next.

Ghettos are everywhere, including Europe and Africa. And everywhere, souls are in need. In John's eyes, Jesus provides spiritual bullet proof vests.

Spiritual beginners sometimes fly too high, too soon. Most return to Earth easily. A few don't. They stay 'up with the fairies', more in heaven than on Earth. Then they're told to 'come down to earth', or to 'get grounded'.

A favourite remedy for spiritual 'too-high-flyers' is to imagine they are a strong tree with roots; then to adjust the roots to the depth needed, then to the width needed, that day. Too shallow or too narrow roots may not ground enough; too deep or too thick roots may ground too much. For best results, grounding is customised daily.

Other favourites for grounding are walking, watching TV, or eating chocolate. The latter always works for me! :-)

Today I found a new option for earthing and grounding. Ploughing! Churning earth ready for new crops.

It was the 82nd Laughton and District Annual Ploughing Match. The 82nd... I tried to find the excitement that could lead to a ploughing competition being held for 82 years.

Contestants compete to plough the deepest and straightest furrow, sending rough chunks of earth neatly to the left of the furrow in a long heap. Then they re-plough the same furrow, this time sending the earth back into the furrow it had come from. They're judged to see who grinds the earth the straightest.

To add 'excitement', antique ploughs are pulled by cart horses or steam engines. Modern diesel machines pull huge shiny ploughs that gouge four furrows at once, and immediately return the earth back into the furrow.

Exciting for contestants perhaps. But not exactly a spectator sport. I can't imagine 80,000 people excitedly cheering an Olympics ploughing race.

I can't think of a less interesting job than to check how straight a ditch is. One official said his son was Chairman of the event, and participants just win a small trophy, otherwise there's no point to it.

At least the farmer who owned the land, who by the looks of the ground had just harvested 100s of acres of wheat, got his land ploughed for free.

But I certainly felt grounded and earthed. There was no sign of an angel anywhere.

I wondered how many spiritual 'flying-too-high' people drive tractors. They all had roughened features, and deep furrowed faces, though not in straight lines. There was not a sign of a spiritual expression anywhere.

On reflection, perhaps spiritual people in need of earthing should not do ploughing to come down to Earth. Judging from the people at the ploughing match, perhaps ploughing gives way too much grounding.

I can't have another such a weirdly boring day again today, I thought. What on Earth will readers think? So I walked to Seaford town, consciously looking for weirdness. It's always there, somewhere. I felt energies in five coffee bars before choosing “Cafe 7”. After all, 7 is supposed to be the number of God. Perhaps 7-God could provide some weirdness? As I sipped a coffee, a lady opposite smiled. Here we go, I thought. She looks weirdly non-boring enough. She was about 60 years old, with haystack hair, and constant angelic smile. She looked like X-factor winner Susan Boyle, unfairly known as 'the hairy angel.' “Do you live near here?” I asked politely. “Eh?” she smiled. I repeated louder, “Do you live here?” She smiled again. “Eh?” Oh, she's hard of hearing. Noisy coffee machines and clanking dishes being washed up didn't help. Her eggs on toast arrived. I changed the question, speaking slow and loud. “Do you have family?” As she pierced the egg yolk, it squirted over the plate. Her smile dropped. “I've got a husband what died and a daughter what ran away. I ain't seen her since.”Ah, I thought. Perhaps today's non-boring weirdness is, can I help her? So I asked. But she couldn't hear, just wiped squirted egg off the edge of her plate with a corner of toast. Eventually, with a mouthful of dripping yolk, she spoke. “I lived in Leeds when the Yorkshire Ripper was ripping people,” she said. “His wife Sonia was as nutty as a fruit cake.”Ah, here we go...perhaps here's the weirdly non-boring connection. I remember Sonia well. She was one of my students! The infamous Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, murdered 13 and injured 7 more. His wife Sonia was pilloried in the press for staying faithful to him, even after divorce. “She was Ukrainian you know. Only about 5 feet tall, you know.” I smiled. The lady licked yolk off her lips. “Sonia used to say to me, 'Do you know who I am?' Sonia thought you were privileged to speak to her. She thought she was the messiah.” I smiled again. “I told her she should move away, that one of these days she'll get punched in the mouth. Sonia's crazy. She must be crazy to still love that bastard after he murdered all those people.” I nodded, to show interest. But that ended our one-sided conversation. She wiped the last bit of egg off her plate and mouth, paid, smiled, and left. Memories... The Yorkshire Ripper's sister attended my Reiki course. Terribly affected by her brother's 13 murders, she cried non-stop for two days. After, she said Reiki had helped her a lot. Months later, she introduced me to Sonia, who asked to study Reiki too. I agreed. She'd suffered terribly. Front pages of national newspapers slated her for staying loyal to her murderer ex-husband. Such 'big news' whipped the emotions of a nation against her, spitefully. Angels would not refuse to help. Thankfully, no-one on the course recognised Sonia. I simply offered unconditional love, and the same support all students receive. She obviously needed immense emotional healing. Self-healing and my therapies helped Sonia immensely. Weeks later she felt better. She asked to study Reiki Level 2, to learn distant healing. “I can then send Reiki to my ex-husband in Broadmoor Hospital prison from a distance,” she explained. “No-one need know.” Sonia said the Yorkshire Ripper needed healing because first an inmate had tried to strangle him - but another convicted murderer, the “Stockwell Strangler" stopped Sutcliffe's murder. Then another prisoner attacked him with a pen, gouging out one eye, and severely damaging the other. I immediately agreed. He was being punished in a mental hospital prison for his crimes. If she wished to help his non-crime-related suffering, why not? Angels would not refuse to help. Memories... It's been a weird, and certainly not a boring life.

My churning feelings about horrid abusers, and horrors they weave in their wake, came out many years ago in a 6-page poem on child abuse.

Someone dear to me, I met in my 20s, was sexually abused as a child. It destroyed her life. 50 years later, she still attends mental health clinics. So I wrote about her life, to rid me of the empathy I shared with her suffering.

There's no sex, no violence in the poem - just allusion. But the allusions often affect people deeply. Here's one...

Dear AllanYour poem "The Dread Tread" (in your book "Life's a Load of Bananas") had such an effect on me that I haven't been able to sleep. And so I wrote this. It's not nearly as good as yours but I wanted to get this off my chest.Not sure about the last bit though but sending it to you anyway.Lots of LOveJenny

A Poem is written for purposeto express both beauty and beastto feel the soft snow in the winterto express sad feelings so deep.

Some of these poems reach outmostly with tidings of joybut some that are written of sadnessbring grieving for that girl or that boy.

Grief for the death of a childhoodthis feeling of terrible losswhen you read of things that are buriedlong gone but are never forgot.

Of a child alone in her room at nightso frightened she don't want to breath'cause she hears a footstep outsideand knows sadly just what it means.

Do they know what they've done to childrenall the sadness and pain that they causethat is carried alone for years after 'cause they can't ask for help any more.

Please all of us now must do somethingstop this inhuman disgusting blightthat's eating away the souls of our kids - please help us to switch on the light.

We must tell these terrible peoplewho cause such suffering and painnot to hurt God's innocent childrenthey really should be so ashamed.

God watches souls of small childrenhe helps them react or feel safe.But watch out you killers of childhoodfor he's watching you too, are you safe?

Jenny

NB."Life's a Load of Bananas" contains 10 sections, with 7 poems in each section. (Mystical, Heavenly, Dying, Romantic, Philosophical, Cryptic, Abused, Humorous, Child's, Lover's.) Created to make you laugh, cry, or think...

Author

See my weird-but-true first blog post on December 1st 2011, for an overview of my polymath, joyful and horrid fairy tale life. Taste the yummy, Godly, disgusting and loving ingredients of future posts - all truthful, with just a little artistic licence.

If writing is the fruit of sin, I must have sinned greatly. Otherwise how was I cured after decades of being 80% disabled; how did I earn merits at a university creative writing course for poetry, fiction and non-fiction; and how did I travel and lecture on TV and radio internationally? I must surely have sinned in wonderfully fun ways.